


Send Yourself Away

by paperclipbitch



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Letters, Misses Clause Challenge, Personal Growth, Post-Canon Fix-It, if it's good enough for andrew davis i can do it too, lady susan as deux ex machina again, regency christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: The memories are becoming something dream-like, being at home is so full of the usual and the ordinary, but Charlotte feels periodic slivers of discontent that were never there before, as though she brought something unexpected back with her.- The year after Charlotte leaves Sanditon.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Send Yourself Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterflymind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/gifts).



> [Title is a Seth Lakeman song] This wasn't actually the story that I set out to write, which was supposed to be far more romantic, but **butterflymind** mentioned in their letter that they wanted Charlotte to do some growing before a fix-it with Sidney, and that ended up being the story I told, and the character I focused on. **butterflymind** , you had such great ideas and character points in your letter that I wanted to write you a novel's worth of stuff for everyone, but sadly I didn't have time - I hope this will do!
> 
> Luckily for all of us, I managed to force myself not to write this in a faux Jane Austen style, which none of us deserved. I've done a bit of historical research (ahaha) so while this fic is probably a bit handwavy, the overall details aren't wrong. And bless the novelisation of the TV _Sanditon_ by Kate Riordan, which is better written than you think it's going to be, and to which I referred constantly for canon details.

Autumn

As it always has been, the world of every person is shaped by money; or perhaps the lack of it. If she had a fortune, Charlotte reflects – not so much a daydream as a faintly wistful notion, returned so often and so fruitlessly to her mind that it has lost all of its bitterness and much of its sting – that if she possessed a fortune, then her life right now would be very different. For one thing, she would not be lying here in bed, staring up at the curtain-darkened ceiling, after another half-sleepless night while Alison dreams silent and solid beside her. For another thing-

“Charlotte! Alison! Are you awake!” Freddie announces his presence by bursting in through the door and bouncing straight onto the bed. Alison yelps upright, and Charlotte gives up on any hope of calm reflection. Their littlest brother does this at least two or three mornings a week, exuberantly dragging them all into the morning, and Charlotte drags him into a tangled hug of blankets and bouncing little boy. It is also true that if she had a fortune, she would able to languish in her own misery. Georgiana certainly had the option of hiding in her room, shunning daylight and company. And certainly no heroines in romantic novels live in a crowded household full of small children, shared bedrooms, laundry and noise and general untidiness. Overall, Charlotte is too pragmatic to spend time shutting herself away, but it hardly matters: she lacks the privacy that a lot of money can provide.

There are letters after breakfast, much to the curiosity of her siblings. Charlotte promises to read them anything interesting, and between that and Alison’s coaxing, the children scamper off to chores and mischief, leaving her alone to peruse them. Mary’s letters come weekly, written in her meticulous tidy hand, telling her tales of the children, the household, of Sanditon. There are often messages for her from the children themselves, or a distracted but fond postscript dashed off from Tom. Mary is shrewd enough and Charlotte knows that her letters are carefully edited, omitting any reference to her brother-in-law, to wedding preparations, or to the specifics of the new building work. She does it with care and grace, so that Charlotte only notices any gaps in detail because she is looking for them. 

Georgiana’s letters arrive more erratically; sometimes Charlotte receives two or three at once, while at other times she must wait nearly a month for correspondence. They are very different to Mary’s, each page cramped with Georgiana’s untidy, impassioned script. The subjects vary, depending on Georgiana’s interests and moods, and read much like sitting beside her friend, listening to her ranting about her frustration with Mrs Griffiths, her boredom, her frustration. She doesn’t often mention Sidney, but, despite everything, Charlotte doubts that that is to spare her feelings: more that Georgiana is disinterested in discussing her guardian further.

When it comes to replying, Charlotte is diligent in keeping up her end of the conversation, in writing back promptly. She does not apply false gaiety to her letters – Georgiana would see straight through it, even if Mary might pretend not to for both their sakes – but stays cheerful and practical throughout. It is strange to be home, after a summer of new people and new experiences, but not entirely unpleasant either. There is comfort in the familiar, after all. She loves her brothers and sisters, copious though they sometimes feel, and she was largely content at home before she ever ventured out into the world. Perhaps she occasionally feels… restless is not the word, more wistful, for places she will probably not go again, and the life that was very briefly almost hers. When she left Sanditon, Tom made vague but earnest remarks on her visiting next year, spending another summer, seeing how the town has grown and flourished, but Charlotte already knows that she will not. Cannot.

There are the gaps in her communication, of course. Charlotte would love to write to Young Stringer, to hear about how his apprenticeship goes, to listen to the gentle solid sense he always seemed to speak. But, although it took her time to realise, she knows now how he felt about her, and she is not cruel enough to poke at wounds perhaps not yet healed, even if it were appropriate for her to send friendly letters to young unmarried men. There is no reason for her to write to Sidney Parker, beyond perhaps a polite note to congratulate him on his nuptials – and Charlotte does not know whether he is married yet or not, because there is little cause for them to take notice of the London aristocratic gossip, and she avoids her father’s newspapers because there is a strange cold comfort in uncertainty. In any case, even if Charlotte had a reason to write to Sidney, she does not know what she would say, and she knows she would not want a reply for the same reason. No, she knows the best way to heal an injury, even the gravest one, is to cover it, to rest, and to take time. 

Alison, the recipient of the majority of Charlotte’s letters over the summer, knows her sister well enough to read between her careful phrasing, that there was more to Charlotte’s departure from Sanditon than merely the end of a pleasant holiday. She has not confronted her over her sudden silence on the matter of Sidney Parker, or her restless nights spent half-awake and half-asleep, eyes heavy with unshed tears and the exhaustion of dashed hopes. Their mother, too, keeps as close an eye on Charlotte as she does the littlest of the children, though she pretends not to. When she first came home, Charlotte’s father called her into his study and looked at her for a long time, maybe searching for something in her face. Whether he found it or not, Charlotte still doesn’t know; but he smiled at last, gruffly embraced her, and sent her back to the enthusiastic chattering of her siblings, the overcrowded bustle and affection of her home.

There are things that an abundance of money can provide, solitude being merely one of them, but Charlotte, letters in her lap, eyes on the garden, mind on the seaside, and heart somewhere else entirely, knows that the same feeling of isolation can be achieved by those of lesser means as well.

Winter

Georgiana talks of London with much the same sense of boredom that she spoke of Sanditon; Charlotte can hardly blame her for her consistent discontent, when her money and her appearance make her a constant source of interest and gossip, and very few people work to accommodate her, merely manage her in a society that she did not ask for. From her letters, Charlotte had gathered that Georgiana had been developing a friendship of some sort with Arthur – one that she privately reflected could do them both much good – but he and his sister have elected to remain in Sanditon for the time being. Charlotte cannot see much in the icy winds and dense rain that befall the seaside at this time of year for the Parkers to enjoy, particularly given their nervous dispositions, but Doctor Fuchs has remained in situ, and Mary’s latest missive, describing moving the children to London for the cold weather, also talks of Arthur and Diana’s dislike of the city. Charlotte has deduced a certain amount of frustration between Mary’s cheerful words, a well-worn argument within the family, and a fond pang of missing them all has taken up residence in her chest. She has no great desire to be in London, with its intimidating parties and even more intimidating aristocracy, but she misses the Parkers, stubbornness and hysteria and occasional desperation and all.

With the change in the weather, Charlotte’s father is kept busy, as people catch colds and influenza, or slip on the increasingly icy roads. Charlotte herself is kept busy assisting, a task she often finds herself enjoying despite the sorry condition of many of the locals they treat, and she knows that she is not imagining her father leaning on her a little more, trusting her judgements in a way that he did not even last year. She is aware of the difference between her letters to Georgiana, with their carefully-chosen humorous anecdotes about patients, and accounts of skating trips on the nearest lake with her siblings, and Georgiana’s replies, with their tales of boring men she was forced to dance with at balls, and women judging her and deliberately cutting her at card parties; the contrast somehow makes Charlotte’s life look even more quaint and provincial than it really is. Still, all things considered, weighed and balanced, Charlotte knows which of them is the happier.

The children grow ever more excited for Christmas, and they are all busy gathering green boughs, holly and ivy, while Alison helps their mother prepare a seemingly endless parade of pies, some barely out of the oven before a curious pair of hands start poking at the crust, while others are wrapped up and sent to their neighbours. The house is constantly full of visitors, noise and flushed faces and convivial tea, and Charlotte is often called upon to talk of her adventures in Sanditon, watching older women’s expressions turn shocked over their mince pies as she talks of sea bathing. The memories are becoming something dream-like, being at home is so full of the usual and the ordinary, but Charlotte feels periodic slivers of discontent that were never there before, as though she brought something unexpected back with her. It’s a relief when her father calls and she has to make her apologies, wrap herself in cloak and bonnet, and go out to assist him with invalids.

Mary’s letters sound a little harried, but, at Charlotte’s encouragement, she talks about the children’s excitement, as they festoon the London house with paper decorations, rummage in all the cupboards for their presents – Henry helped by an equally eager Alicia and Jenny – and generally make very happy nuisances of themselves. Mary freely admits that she misses Charlotte, and her calming influence over the girls; Charlotte’s smile is both pleased and rueful as she hides in her bedroom from the chatter downstairs, reading. Apparently Georgiana consented to join them for a trip to the theatre; Mary says that she is still a little subdued, but that her spirits have risen considerably since the summer, and that all of them enjoyed themselves. She does not say where Sidney and the new Mrs Parker will be spending Christmas; Charlotte briefly envisions their staid, luxurious yuletide, and even if Sidney is struggling with his heart and perhaps his conscience, there is no doubt that wherever they are, the house will not feel as crowded and noisy. 

Over the last few months, Charlotte has tried her best not to imagine too vividly Sidney’s new married life. For one thing, it feels like senselessly torturing herself; what’s done is done, after all, and her making herself miserable by dwelling on it will not improve her lot. For another, it makes her feel a little torn and complicated: pitying Sidney, marrying someone he claims to no longer love, just to save his brother. And, despite herself, pitying Eliza, who has married someone she has waited so long for, but who has married her for her money, not for herself. Or perhaps by now they will have settled down to something comfortable and nearly romantic, the situation better than Charlotte has envisioned it. It does no good for her to wonder, and, aside from wanting to preserve her wounded feelings, Charlotte still retains her pride: she will not ask. She might wonder sometimes, feeling ever more at a distance from last summer as the cold weather rushes in and all her contact with the people she came to know only through letters, but she knows that she has made progress, and will not endanger that now merely to satisfy her mind. 

Spring

When the first letter from Lady Worcester arrived, leading to confused exclamations from Charlotte’s parents, she had attempted to pretend they had merely met briefly at the regatta. Lady Worcester invited Charlotte to visit London for the Season – _if you are worried about dresses, do not be; I have more than I can possibly wear, and many that I know will suit you_ – and, despite her misgivings about the city, she was tempted to go. Then she saw her father’s expression when he heard London, and told herself that Lady Worcester was simply being polite, and that she has had more than enough adventures away from home to consider this one. Then the second, more insistent, letter arrived, and the next thing Charlotte knew, Allison was rummaging through trunks of clothes and her mother was altering the sleeves and hems of half a dozen gowns Charlotte didn’t know they still had, and her older sisters were returning from the village with bunches of ribbons and excited giggles. Charlotte’s father mostly sighed and dropped dire hints about the big cities, and she pretended very hard that she had never been anywhere near London before, because she hadn’t thought her frantic trip to follow Georgiana something she should tell her family about.

Now, Charlotte is here for her visit, still unsure why Lady Worcester – _Susan_ , as she still gently insists – would want to invite her to stay for months. She is friendly, though, and receives Charlotte as delightedly as she ever has. Her home is large and grand enough to be intimidating, but the room she has Charlotte ushered to in order to rest after her journey is beautifully decorated in soft greens, a lovely space, even if her heart tugs a little at the difference between this room and the one she shares at home. 

Later, tea served and servants dismissed, Susan sits close and demands to hear about Charlotte’s Christmas. She watches her face keenly as she talks for signs that she’s boring so great a lady – who surely has very little interest in rural carol singing, or children bickering over their toys – but Susan shows every sign of amusement, laughing at Charlotte’s descriptions of all her siblings getting underfoot, eyes bright. Part of Charlotte feels she ought not to be speaking so much, nor so enthusiastically – she has always found herself too chatty when compared to the quiet young women of upper society – but she has never been able to stay silent on the subject of things that she loves, and a shrewd part of her suspects that her candidness is at least part of what keeps Lady Worcester interested in her. She feels a little awkward about this sometimes, but also proud of being different from the meek and insipid young women she sometimes sees at balls, blinking a lot, saying nothing. She hopes that she will never end up that way.

It is only when the pot is mostly empty that Susan comes around the table to sit beside Charlotte on the small sofa, taking Charlotte’s hand between two of hers. It is such an intimate gesture, reminiscent of comfort, that Charlotte’s heart beats a little faster, apprehensive already she doesn’t know why.

“I wondered if the news had reached you, and now I see that it hasn’t,” she begins, which does nothing to soothe Charlotte’s feelings. Susan smiles carefully, kind, and Charlotte is already bracing herself for all manner of death, sickness and disaster when she says: “well, the fact is that Sidney Parker and Eliza Campion did not marry.”

For a single moment of something like shock, Charlotte finds herself wondering how many bruises a heart can take in a single year, when she had finally started to hear his name with something like composure, and now fluttering and nausea must take up residence inside her once again.

“What happened?” she stammers. “No one – no one wrote to me to tell me. Not Georgiana, not Mary, not…”

Susan’s mouth twists a little. “Well,” she says, “I will say that Mr Parker did his best – I never saw a man more miserable yet determined to do his duty – but either someone was cruel enough to point out the truth to Mrs Campion, or she is cleverer than I ever gave her credit for, but, well, it finally occurred to her that the engagement was based solely on her finances and not because of a great unwavering love on her fiancé’s part.” Charlotte cannot say that she was ever in a position to like Mrs Campion – even if she had not had her complicated history with Sidney, her snide asides and sharp little remarks did not endear her – but even so, something a little like pity and a little like guilt floods her. 

“I wouldn’t wear that expression,” Susan remarks mildly, “I also think that further exposure demonstrated to Mrs Campion that she had built someone to love in her head who no longer bore much resemblance to the current Sidney Parker, if it ever did. It seems time and distance create memories that are more fantasy than fact.”

Charlotte feels her face flush, even though she’s not sure that Susan’s words are entirely aimed at her.

“In any case,” Susan continues briskly, “the engagement was called off, Eliza Campion has engaged herself to a peer who seems to make her far happier than Mr Parker ever did, and Mr Parker himself has fled for the continent.”

To her shame and frustration, Charlotte can feel her eyes filling with tears, her throat closing up. She has spent many months seeing that, in some ways at least, she was still a child last summer, hopeful for things that could never have plausibly happened. It has been a sharp journey, sorting through the wreckage of her heart, her self-esteem, and the whirlwind of events last year. She has concluded, reluctantly, that she wouldn’t change any of them even if she could; but it has involved examining herself and her feelings enough that she is exhausted, still stinging a little. And to be shown so brutally that she was probably right is almost more than she can bear.

“What of Sanditon?” she manages, because Mary has talked of the rebuilding, and Tom’s brief notes have been full of architectural information he correctly assumed that Charlotte would understand, and no one has mentioned the sudden withdrawal of their financial backing.

Susan examines the tablecloth, straightening the lace edge slightly. “An anonymous donation or two found their way to Tom Parker, enough that this time around he has insurance.” When Charlotte opens her mouth, she adds: “in truth, I am exhausted with Brighton, and frankly anything that puts Eliza Campion’s nose out of joint is money well spent.”

At this, Charlotte finally digs out her handkerchief, pressing it to her wet eyes. She is overwhelmed, and perhaps glad to be receiving this news in Lady Worcester’s warm private parlour, rather than trying to decipher it from various letters at home. Susan puts her arms around her, and Charlotte allows herself to be held as she swallows down her tears; it is a relief, in a way, not to be crying hidden away, pretending to be fine as all around her crumbles.

“I imagine,” Susan says at last, “that no one informed you that this had happened for the same reason I did not: there is still more to come, and I don’t believe anyone wanted you sitting at home waiting for a visitor who cannot yet arrive.” She takes out her own handkerchief to dab at Charlotte’s cheeks. “Mr Parker saw, of course, that after a break from his engagement with scandal dogging his every step, he could not turn up at your father’s house and demand your hand. And I imagine the past year has been almost as confusing for him as it has been for you, my dear, so I’m pleased that he has taken some distance and hopefully some time to consider, instead of recklessly dragging you into this tangle.”

Charlotte nods, a little numbly, because what Lady Worcester says is sensible and true and speaks better of Sidney than her battered heart can right now. Life is not a novel, though, and the idea of Sidney, windswept and frantic and free to be hers at last, arriving at her home and demanding their marriage – it is a wonderful thought, a daydream she couldn’t help but entertain in the first weeks after she left Sanditon, but it cannot happen in reality. She believes in love above all, and that many of society’s rules are ridiculous and exhausting, but whatever happened she and Sidney could never flout them all, nor should they wish to. 

“I have invited you for the Season because I find your company refreshing,” Susan tells her, when Charlotte has calmed herself and no longer expects to startle them both with tears. “I know you have friends here in London: Miss Lambe is still staying here, and I believe Lord and Lady Babington have returned from the continent to take up residence for the moment. You shall not be dull.” She smiles, broad and genuine. “For my part, I will take you to the most wonderful parties – no more costumed balls with no one half-decent to talk to, I cannot bear them – and every night you will dance with twenty men who are not worthy of you, and we shall discuss them over breakfast the next day, and you will have the most splendid time.”

It sounds both like something Charlotte would love to do, and like something that someone other than her would do. Perhaps that is the point of it. 

“Do you expect me to find a husband?” she asks quietly.

Susan shrugs her delicate shoulders. “Are you looking for one?”

“Not particularly,” Charlotte admits.

“Then you need not attempt to attract one,” Susan replies pragmatically. “But there is no sense in wearing the willow while Sidney Parker attempts to figure himself out and separate his boyhood fantasies from his adult desires. You can meet all sorts of men, determine that most of their sex are exhausting, and if you are still decided that you can bear Mr Parker’s follies above all others, then at least when he returns you will know more of the world and what you would like out of it.”

Charlotte struggles to find words, to thank Susan for providing her with an opportunity that she did not know until recently that she wanted, because she may have left Sanditon with her feelings in pieces, but she learned much, and has made memories that she would not give up for the world. She is ready for more, she thinks, despite her apprehension, despite her quiet longing that she suspects will dog her through ballrooms and parlours this spring. She has been an unsophisticated child, but she is ready to be more now.

“Thank you,” she says, “I- I look forward to it.”

“Good,” Susan says simply, and leans forward to rest her palm against the exquisite teapot, allowed to go cold while they spoke. “More tea, I think,” she continues, and Charlotte smiles.

Summer

The sea, at least, is unchanged.

Sanditon is larger than Charlotte remembers, what was burnt in the fire already rebuilt and yet more added, houses and streets and buildings she does not recall. It feels strange, as she has walked the town so many times in her dreams and her thoughts since she left, and for a long moment upon arrival it felt as though their coach had pulled up somewhere else entirely, somewhere unexpected and unknown. But then the Parkers were pulling her and Georgiana down the steps, children and adults all talking over one another, and suddenly enough was familiar again.

Though she claims not to be, Georgiana is happier in Sanditon than she often was in London, Charlotte can see. Though her skin colour may not stand out as much in London, where people from all over the world have settled down and made their lives, the size of her inheritance is large enough that she still stands out from the crowds of other young women searching for a future in the city. Though Georgiana’s heart is still at a stage where she was in no danger of being seduced by a fortune hunter, Charlotte was nonetheless a little shocked at the number of men of all ages who swarmed about her, clamouring for attention in the most rude and exhausting ways. _It almost makes me miss my room at Mrs Griffiths’_ , she joked quietly one night, but Charlotte could see the tired frustration in her eyes, and it made her glad that she was there to be with her, that Georgiana was not left to face all of the wolves alone.

Charlotte herself attracted a fair amount of attention, with such a patroness as Lady Worcester chaperoning her about, and even when her would-be suitors discovered that there was no great fortune or title to be gained from associating with her, more than she expected still stayed to dance or converse with her, to escort her in to dinner or to invite her driving in the park. At first, Charlotte found all of it a little intimidating, a little frightening, but over time and with diligent practice she learned the art of easy conversation, how to direct away topics that made her uncomfortable, and how to excuse herself without causing offence or drawing unwanted attention to herself. London society continues to be almost too busy, too crowded, too rich and bored by half; but Charlotte now knows how to conduct herself within it. A little like the sea bathing she learned at Sanditon last year, she can now float through it without letting her feet touch the bottom.

By the time Mary wrote to ask Charlotte to spend the summer with them once more – her tone confident but a hint of friendly hesitation between the lines – she was more than willing to go, wanting to see the family she has missed so much, and ready at last to return to the town that left her with a myriad of emotions that it has taken time to untangle. Georgiana, still in touch with Sidney though she and Charlotte have never discussed it, admitted that he had asked if Mary would chaperone Georgiana this summer, rightly assuming that another few months spent with someone like Mrs Griffiths would lead only to more rebellion. Mary had happily agreed to his request and, though she complained for half the carriage journey, Charlotte can see Georgiana is pleased and perhaps a little relieved to be lodging with the Parkers this time around.

Not that London was all strangers: as Susan predicted, Charlotte repeatedly came across Lady Esther Babington. She had always thought Esther beautiful, though last year her beauty was more like that of a painting, cool, distant and untouchable. Now, with her new husband by her side, and society ready to accept her rather than stare her down as a poor relation, there is a glitter and a bloom to her, some of her sharp edges worn off. She still carries a little of her old wariness, but she was friendly and kind to Charlotte whenever they met, none of her brittle callousness to be seen. Lord Babington appeared as infatuated as ever, deliriously happy with his new bride, and Charlotte was self-aware enough to acknowledge the twinge in her own heart as she saw how their own story had ended, how the hopes she had had for herself ended up being passed on to another. She does not begrudge them their joy, but acknowledges that she would have liked to have had some of that for her own.

Tom Parker seems more relaxed, still full of energy and enthusiasm, but without the edge of terror he often wore before, and he and Mary seem more of one mind, than two people who keep missing each other. Diana and Arthur are much the same as they always have been, seemingly remarkably hale and busy for two who claim they are repeatedly knocking at death’s door, while the children are bigger and keen to show Charlotte all that they have learned, gained, and discovered. Charlotte’s parents seem to have reconciled themselves to their gadabout oldest daughter, writing fond rather than reproachful letters as she once again travels far from home, but it still feels a little strange to Charlotte that she feels as much at home with the Parkers as she does with her own family.

In amongst this reunion, the new things to tell each other that somehow never made it into letters, the new buildings to explore, Charlotte feels a little lost, as though she felt that when she finally returned to Sanditon, she would be sure of something once and for all, and yet she is not. In this, then, the sea is a relief: always changeable, a restless stretch of motion and reflected sky, and yet it is in the same place that it was before, as unknowing and endless as it has ever been. It leaves Charlotte’s hair a mess despite her bonnet, and her lips tasting of salt, and she knows it for what it is. There are so many people she does not know in this town, and so many things might yet happen that she cannot control.

There were three proposals in London, although one of them was made under the impression that Charlotte was merely being modest about a great inheritance due to her one day, so she discounts that one because anyone might propose to anyone with their pockets to let. Still, there were two young men who found her beautiful and charming enough to contemplate building a future with her within it. She refused them both with more calm grace than she felt inside, heart pounding so hard it was a wonder that they did not hear it. Not, she has concluded, because she is awaiting a proposal from anyone else – indeed, she waited and waited for the proposal she actually wanted, and in the end it proved impossible; she will not wait for it still – but because she did not feel affectionate enough toward them, not enough to spend a lifetime by their side. Georgiana teases her as though she is not fending off proposals from all angles, but after all she has the promised wrath of her absent guardian to hide behind if she wishes, and Charlotte has only herself.

There are promises of parties, of visitors, of another regatta in the upcoming months; Tom asks Charlotte to act as his secretary again, as he has never found anyone competent enough to match her, and she agrees readily enough because it is the sort of work she enjoys, though something in her suspects that she is not supposed to. Another whirlwind for Charlotte to get caught up in, bigger, bolder and more sure of itself than last year – and maybe she can say the same for herself after all. It is still a relief to be able to escape from time to time, to walk over the cliffs and think of nothing but the sea and the sky and the air filling her lungs and whipping her skirts around her legs, the way that it always has, and the way that it always will.

It is here, of course it is here, that she finally runs into Sidney Parker, newly returned from his restive travels across the continent. Later, she will find that he had no idea that she was in Sanditon, that news of her was as carefully meted out to him as news of him was to her, and that he had finally thought to do his filial duty and aid Tom in his second grand resort summer, and that after so long travelling he longed to stretch his legs and breathe the fresh air. For now, it merely feels like fate, as though this was always what Charlotte was walking towards.

Sidney’s hair is slightly longer, his skin a shade darker from the sun; he looks softer than he did last summer, and more tired, and Charlotte wonders if he is trying to read her the way she is him, cataloguing her subtle differences, trying to peer behind his expression into all the adventures she has had without him, ones that he cannot possibly guess at. 

“Miss Heywood,” he says, hesitation and hope, a shake that she does not think she imagines. “ _Charlotte_.”

Charlotte feels herself smile. She was never entirely sure what she would do in this moment, imagining herself drowning, unsure how to react. But that is not what she feels now.

“Mr Parker,” she replies, and sees something light up in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Recently it was announced (to no one's real surprise) that _Sanditon_ is not coming back for a second series, which is sad, because it was nonsense, but enjoyable nonsense. *raises glass* This one's for you, kids.


End file.
